


Motherhen

by dev_chieftain



Category: Dragon Age 2
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-03
Updated: 2011-05-03
Packaged: 2017-10-18 22:29:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/194001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dev_chieftain/pseuds/dev_chieftain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a prompt on DA Kink Meme:</p><p>Fenris comes down with some bad illness like the flu or pneumonia. His lover wants to give him a shot of magic to make him feel better, but he refuses because of his past with magic and his stubbornness ("I can handle it myself!").</p><p>He starts to get worse, and so his partner resorts to old-school healing: soup and bedrest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Motherhen

**Author's Note:**

> So much UST.

It is midwinter. The worst time of year for health. The rats, which were content to roam in and out whenever they felt like it during the warmer parts of the year, hide and huddle inside the abandoned mansion. They, the vermin that ride them, and the cold itself have all conspired to creep into a sickness which, almost palpable, has crept down Fenris's throat while he slept drunk in the ruined rooms, coughing and unaware that he was getting worse.

He has quite obviously not noticed his own symptoms as they've gone about their usual business these last few days. The coughing, his inability to participate in conversations with his usual alertness, his slow reactions in battle-- all scream that he is too ill to continue.

Hawke notices, but he doesn't dare say anything. Not until someone else has said something, lest it look like he is too obviously enamored of the man who left him. Not, of course, that Aveline would care, even assuming she noticed; not that Merrill would mind, once she realized that it isn't her fault-- that Hawke just doesn't like women That Way.

Fortunately for Hawke, Varric notices too, and Varric has never been one to hold his tongue.

"Hey, idiot," he calls, when Fenris stumbles behind them for the fourth time since they came down to the beach. "You're sick as a dog, you know that?"

Fenris's answer is weak, and he looks confused. "The dog is sick?"

"Maker's breath," Aveline sighs. "He's delirious."

"I am not delirious," Fenris assures her, though he doesn't seem quite certain where she is and he wavers where he stands, squinting.

"Take him to Blondie," Varric sighs, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. "I'll cover the fee and the extra gold to quit his bitching over helping out a mage hater. Can you two carry him?"

Fenris, who seems to think they must just not have heard him over the roaring of blood in his ears, reasserts: "I am not. Delirious."

"You're not well, either, elf."

He is going to answer, except he can't hear what he says so stops talking, confused. The roaring is louder. He feels so dizzy. His vision is spots and black and everything darkens to a warm nothing and for the first time in about a week, Fenris sleeps.

When he wakes again, he's in a room that is vaguely familiar; he can smell Aveline's favorite brandy nearby, and hear Varric snoring.

"...wh...where?" he mutters, blinking owlishly in what seems to him to be very bright light. No one answers; there is no one else in the room but Varric and he is very deeply asleep. Fenris would stay where he is, but his hair is sweaty and hanging in his face and itching, and the sheets are heavy and too hot. He doesn't feel well. His armor is sitting on the floor near a lute that looks a little like his lute, but not quite.

He wrestles his way free of the sheets, blearily seeking something to put this familiar place back into perspective. There's another smell under that strong scent of Aveline's favorite brandy, a pleasant sort of smell that puts him at ease. Warm smell, a little like incense. Is it incense?

The floor is extremely cold on Fenris's feet. He has been dressed while incapacitated and defenseless to stop it, he sees with some dismay, in loose-fitting cotton undergarments. They are undyed and do nothing to conceal the tattoos running like a second skeleton along his skin, but they are light enough that he can feel air drying the sweat of his fever as he moves and he is grateful. Cold floor. His feet are warm, as are his hands.

He sways dangerously and quickly moves to the doorway, where he catches hold of the wall and leans, panting, relieved to have support.

"Fenris," says a voice he knows too well, gently, carefully neutral, politely considering his feelings first (like always). "You probably shouldn't be walking about, you know."

"Why am I here?" he asks at last, realizing why the room is so familiar and feeling his face get hotter, embarrassed. Somehow, the accusatory tone in his voice seems entirely appropriate. Clearly, this is all Hawke's fault. Another attempt to lay claim on and subjugate him, even though Fenris has made it very clear he can't cope with the idea of such-- such things. "Why didn't you take me back to the mansion?"

"It was filthy," Hawke snaps, evidently at the end of his patience. Before Fenris can put two words together to defend his mausoleum of a home, he is startled to find himself swung up into Hawke's arms and carried back to the bed. Forcefully deposited there and re-tucked beneath the sheets, he stares up at Hawke with a meek sort of wonder. He did not think the mage capable of lifting his weight, even if Hawke is taller than he is and no slender slip of youth, besides. "Now be sensible and stay in bed a while. You're very ill. Even if we could convince Anders to help you-- don't bother protesting, I won't waste my time with either of you bickering-- it would take a week or more for you to recover. You need rest, lots of food, and someone to dote on you in the meantime."

Fenris finds himself unexpectedly embarrassed and stammers awkwardly, harshly, "And I suppose you volunteered?"

Instead of answering, Hawke smiles a distant smile, stands up, and leaves the room. When the snoring suddenly stops and Varric makes a great show of looking comically after Hawke to be sure he's gone away, Fenris realizes the whole tableau of sleeping was a facade.

"Have I ever told you you're a cruel bastard?" Varric says, when he acknowledges that Fenris is staring at him.

"I'm-- I am not."

"Coulda fooled me, elf. But, just for the record; Hawke's a little busy. _I_ volunteered to play nursemaid just for kicks."

This doesn't seem like it could be correct, since he is in Hawke's mansion. Doesn't Varric have a room at the Hanged Man they could throw him in if necessary? "Then why...?"

"Why are you here? Because Hawke wanted to make sure you were okay, that's why."

Fenris shrinks down into the covers, head pounding with his fever, with his heartbeat. "...he didn't have to."

Shrugging, Varric says nothing more on the subject and the room is silent enough that Fenris can feel his body slipping into slumber. In spite of himself, he feels-- touched-- that Hawke would show such concern, even after what he's done. Not for the first time, he spends his dreams worrying in circles: what if I didn't make the right choice?


End file.
